23. Cheyanne

Itry to move past Ronan, but he blocks me with his massive chest. I want to get past this tiff we're having. It's going nowhere, and we're both getting hurt by our words. There's no seeing eye-to-eye right now. He knows it. I know it, too. But Ronan has other plans, like digging a deeper relationship hole.

"You're seriously not getting the reality here, are you?" Ronan stares down at me like I'm a stubborn child he needs to lecture. "The solution, reputation, and money is staring you straight in the eyeballs and you refuse to look. Unbelievable."

I back up and cross my arms. I need my personal space.

"What's so terribly wrong about making it on my own? Doing things my way for a change instead of having to kowtow to everybody else's view of me, my career, and my damn bank account. I'm a fully grown woman, in case you haven't noticed. I have the right to set the trajectory of my life."

"You're right there. That's the one point you're missing. You ignorantly think you're doing all this on your own. There's an entire contingent of people behind the ring making you a star. Employees to promote your image and arrange the shows. The real drudgery work you're completely blithe to."

Hateful words sit right on the tip of my tongue, but I fight the urge. I body check Ronan enough to get by and escape his condescending lecture. How dare he presume my thoughts, or how I value the people around me? What an asshole!

I stomp into the gym area. Before I wrap my hands, I get Marie and Camie on a group text, explaining how rude and stubborn Ronan is being with me right now.

Girl, I hate to say this to you, but Ronan is right. I think you're looking a gift horse in the mouth here

The first text that comes through is from Camie.

Yes, sweetheart. In this instance Ronan is seeing clearly and is trying to get you to see clearly, too. Career success rarely comes from stubborn pride. You need to check your ego at the door on this one.

I can tell by Marie's text that her heart is reaching out to me, but emotion overtakes my reason. Marie sees life without rose-colored glasses. And she never minces words. I love that about her. But right now, I hate that about her.

So, you two are on his side, too? Disastra is the best career move? You're happily wiping Archimedes off the map like she never existed. That character put me on the map with my mom. I'd be nothing with Archimedes, you realize, right?

Two "Yes" texts immediately hit my screen. I don't dare ask which of my questions they're answering. I don't want to know.

I lock my phone's home screen and plunk down on a bench. It's like people I care for and trust just sucker punched me in the gut. I sit there, a wrestler without the fight. Towels and water bottles have more use than me at this moment.

I whisper. "Why can't people see what I see? The potential of greatness still left in the Archimedes character? Mom and I worked that character to the bone. We honed it, shaped it to be everlasting. And everyone wants to stomp it to death. Have my image be dead and gone like my mom."

Tears well, but damn if I'm going to let them fall. I wick them away, open my phone again, and bring up my calendar.

"Fricken seven shows booked as Archimedes next month alone. Seven! With the new moves, I've taken the lackluster ticket sales and boosted the hell out of them. And everyone decides it"s all because of Disastra when I know in my heart it's a mix. The aggressiveness and the righteousness of both."

I work my session, going through the paces, but my heart isn't in it. I quickly finish and leave, not even showering or changing. I don't want another confrontation today. Not with Roman. Not with anyone.

Twenty-pound weights feel strapped to my legs as I reach my car. Not from the workout. From my emotions. I'm tired of the arguments, the debates. And I'm so wrecked by the betrayal. There's nobody in my corner to support my vision.

Through the front windshield, I stare straight ahead. I don't register the cars parked around me. My mind is wasted. My thoughts, a void. Maybe a good night's sleep will help. I look at myself in the rearview mirror.

"Damn them all. I don't need people supporting me, telling me what to think, what to do. Follow my gut. That's what Mom always told me."

I reach for the ignition button and stop. I'm a wreck. I have to get my mental shit together before I drive home. I'll end up in a ditch behaving like this.

In the darkness, I bring up my cell's wallpaper pic. I see my mom smiling back at me. My body aches for her to hold me one last time, to tell me everything will be alright.

"Why, Mom? Why can't you be here? I need you. Nobody is in my corner anymore since you've passed. Nobody gets me like you do. Please send me a sign, something, anything, that you're backing my decision at least. Archimedes is more than a name or a character. It's me, right, Mom? We made her like me. If I lose her, who am I? And if I lose her, I'll have nothing left of you. Nothing."

I wait for her image to fly from my phone, fill up the seat beside me, and hold me close. I look over. The seat remains empty. I touch the material. I know her DNA has to be in the weave. She has to be here with me somehow.

Otherwise, how do I keep living? How do I keep doing what she wanted me to do? With the empty seat beside me, all I want to do is give up and run away. What's the point of anything anymore?

I hear a rap on the side window. I jump, look up, and see Ronan looking down. He must have seen me leave. I had hoped to escape the gym unseen. Damn him. Not even alone time when I need it. I turn the car's auxiliary power on and roll down the window.

"Chey, come inside."

"I will. In a bit."

"No, now. You're too strong for all this clinging onto the past. You need to come back in so we can talk. You need to tell me what's really going on. There's more to this than a character change or fighting for some brand image."

I glare up at him. For the first time, Ronan looks like a fighter aiming his guns at me, not a lover with my needs at heart. In the glaring overhead parking lot lights, he looks menacing, like someone who's got it in for me and my dreams. A little birdie in my ear whispers I'm over-emoting from stress and nervous exhaustion, but I don't give a shit.

"Stop psychoanalyzing me! I'm not some science project you glommed onto for shits and giggles. This is my life, Ro. My life you're messing with. If you're worried about the back end, don"t. You"ll get your due. How ‘bout you focus on your own business and leave me out? What's the wrestler mantra? Take care of number one. How ‘bout you start doing that?"

Ronan opens my car door and tries to gently take my arm. I recoil. I can't. I'm up to my neck in lectures and scoldings. I'm wrung out like a dishrag, and there's no juice left.

I close the door, roll up the window, and start the engine.

Ronan shrugs and walks back to the gym, and I throw the car in gear.

At the intersection, I look across at my screen. Somehow, I've missed calls and texts from both Mac and my dad.

I flip the cell screen off. I want to drive home in peace with the essence of my mother sitting alongside me. I pat the seat cushion, praying her DNA touches my fingers. I know that's all I have left of her. It will have to be enough.

The entire way home, I fight back tears of anger, frustration, and regret. I'm weighed down by so many issues, with so many people. How can I have all this baggage at such a young age?

Then I hear a whisper in my head, or I think it's in my head. It's my mom's voice.

To fight and to lose causes regrets. But to not fight at all is a wasted life. Fight.

Tears flow down my cheeks. I blink over and over, wishing human eyeballs had wipers. Cars and lights fly by me, a kaleidoscope mix of light and sound. The motor hum soothes me some. No music, no radio. Just me, the motor, and the ticking of my mom's watch on my wrist.

As my adrenaline dissipates, I start to breathe easier and see clearer. The overreacting wanes and I feel a bit foolish. But not enough to care or to apologize to anyone on this mortal coil.

I finally reach my street and pull into the drive.

My bed awaits. Thank God.

My headlights catch a vision. It's Mac, standing alongside his car. God knows how long he has been waiting in my drive. If I hadn't ignored his messages, maybe I wouldn't be caught by surprise right now.

Before I reach the front door, he lets the question fly.

The anxiety, the overreacting, the stress, and the exhaustion pounce on me once more and I forget to breathe.

Mac looks straight into my eyes. "When were you going to tell me about Disastra?"